


into the crossfire

by Coara



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:13:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3958897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coara/pseuds/Coara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>„Such splendid hands, far too competent to work a nurse’s job,“ she runs the pads of her fingers gently over Joan’s palm, on to her fingers, until she entangles them, „Why sell yourself at less than fair value. You should hold a scalpel, not change the sheets of beds.“</p>
            </blockquote>





	into the crossfire

It is the middle of the night when Joan sees her for the first time. She stumbles into the hospital, the important looking military uniform splattered with blood and dirt, the light brown fabric over her shoulder darkens with every passing second.

Joan rushes to her side, supports her with a stabilizing arm around the blonde woman’s waist, while another nurse brings a stretcher.

„Looks like she’s been shot. Go and get Dr. Thomas, I’ll try to stop the bleeding,“ with a nod of her head Joan sends her colleague on her way, while she pushes the struggling woman gently back onto the stretcher, „Miss, my name is Joan Watson. You have been shot, the doctor will be here shortly, but you have to keep still so we can treat you properly.“

The woman’s face twists in pain when Joan presses bandages onto the wound, she grits her teeth and hisses, her cheeks losing more and more of their color.

„Miss,“ Joan looks at the name tag on the woman’s chest, „Adler, do you want me to contact your family, or one of your comrades?“

Before she can give an answer, the woman’s eyelids flutter and drop, when she looses consciousness.

„What’ve we got here?“ Dr. Thomas rushes into the lobby, one of the nurses already carrying a blood bag and saline with her.

„Bullet wound, clear shot through the shoulder. I don’t think anything vital is damaged, but she lost a lot of blood.“ Joan feels the bandages get damp under her palm.

„Let’s get her to the OR, we need to fix that hole, Watson, you can assist.“

„Thank you, doctor.“ A small smile tugs at Joan’s lips, when they transport the woman to the operating room. It will be the first time for the doctor to actually let her do something when he works on a patient.

Joan can’t wait.

 

* * *

 

 

Major Irene Adler recovers well. She wakes up two days after the operation on her shoulder. She looks far too young for a military rank that high, but Joan doesn’t question it. War is about to break out, and Joan has other things on her mind to worry about.

„How are you feeling today?“ Joan closes the door behind her, walks through the room to open the window. Irene prefers it closed, but patient rooms tend to get a musty odor, despite the inhabitant getting washed twice every day. The antiseptics and wounds just don’t smell like a bouquet of flowers.

„Same as last night, darling. I’d just wish for you to release me, so I won’t occupy your precious time anymore.“ A charming smile curls Irene’s lips, when Joan rolls her eyes at her.

„You know I can’t do that, until the doctor says so.“

„But you are the one observing my wellbeing, and thus competent to judge whether I can walk out of this building without collapsing after two steps.“ She rolls her shoulder, as far as the bandage and sling allow her movement.

Joan steps closer to the bed, motioning for Irene to lean forward, and fluffs the pillow. When she wants to retreat, Irene grabs one of her hands.

„Such splendid hands, far too competent to work a nurse’s job,“ she runs the pads of her fingers gently over Joan’s palm, on to her fingers, until she entangles them, „Why sell yourself at less than fair value. You should hold a scalpel, not change the sheets of beds.“

Joan’s breath hitches, when Irene raises their hands to her mouth and grazes Joan’s knuckles softly with her lips.

 

* * *

 

 

Just a few days later she is gone. Armed and uniformed men came and demanded her release, Joan couldn’t stop them after Dr. Thomas had signed the paper work.

Not that Joan wanted to keep Irene here forever, but the British Empire had finally declared war on Germany and now she is worried Irene will be front and center far too soon.

She shouldn’t care that much about her, but she does.

Finishing her night shift, Joan comes home when the sun starts to rise over London’s horizon. She takes in the sight and enjoys the warmth of the early sun on her face, fumbling with her keys, before she unlocks the door to her small apartment.

As soon as the door closes behind her, she feels that something is off. Quietly, not stepping further into her own home, Joan unzips her purse and grabs the knife she always carries with her when she’s got the late shift.

Her apartment is a small hallway with one door on the left and one on the right. Bathroom and bedroom. Both doors were closed when she left for work, but now the one to her bedroom is wide open, and sunlight illuminates the wall across.

Her grip on the knife tightens, she raises it, ready to strike, takes the last few steps, and leaps into the bedroom.

With a loud clatter the knife falls to the floor.

„Wha-? Irene? What are you doing here?“

Irene sits on her bed, in her uniform again - striking, beautiful - legs crossed, the skirt barely covering her knees.

Joan’s heart beats fast when she bends down to pick up the knife.

„Hopefully I will be able to enjoy the pleasure of your company.“ The smile she flashes Joan doesn’t reach her eyes.

Joan puts the knife onto the small dresser next to the door, crosses her arms in front of her chest and stares at Irene unbelievingly. „And you couldn’t have waited until I’m home and, I don’t know, knock? I could have stabbed you!“

„I highly doubt that, darling,“ Irene rises to her feet and steps closer, almost stepping into Joan’s personal space, „I received my orders late evening yesterday and I have twenty-four hours before my departure.“

„Oh,“ it’s barely a breath that leaves Joan’s lips, the realization of Irene’s words stunning her for a few seconds, „I- Wha- Irene?“

„I will leave soon, and I don’t know when or even _if_ I will come back,“ she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, before her face seems to fall, and when she opens her eyes again they are the most sincere Joan has ever seen them, „My name is Jamie Moriarty, the identity of Irene Adler is a creation of the British military. I am working for a special force and will leave directly for Berlin.“

 

* * *

 

 

They talk when Joan finds her voice again. They talk for hours, until Ire- Jamie has enough, cups Joan’s cheeks and guides their lips together. It is slow at first, sensually exploring each other, until need and desperation overwhelms them.

The autumn sun bathes their naked skin and tangled limbs. Jamie traces the freckles on Joan’s shoulders, up her neck and on her cheeks with her lips and the tip of her tongue.

Breaths and moans mingle between them, while Joan’s fingers travel over the scars that are scattered across Jamie’s skin, stoping at the one on her shoulder, barely healed, that brought them into each other’s lives.

Joan misses her next shift.

When she awakes, Jamie is gone.

 

* * *

 

 

The feeling of something about to happen, doesn’t leave her for days. Jamie is gone for months now, the war raging and although Joan doesn’t work near the front line, the hospital gets enough patients as it is.

Every time she walks home, hope swells up in her. Hope of Jamie standing in her bedroom again, with her twisted life and sinful being. But she never shows up.

Joan is changing into her sleepwear when a knock sounds through her apartment. With it being almost 10pm, she grabs her knife and walks slowly through the hallway. „Who is there?“ Her voice shakes a bit. There had been an increase of robberies and assaults at night, since the war had started, and someone at her door at this time of night leaves her nervous, the fingers not grabbing the knife twitching.

„Lieutenant Sherlock Holmes and Captain Marcus Bell looking for Miss Watson.“

Joan’s eyes go wide. Military. Without a second thought she’s at the door and opens it a small crack. Seeing the insignia of the British Army on their uniforms she opens the door completely, puts the hand holding the knife behind her back.

„What can I do for you?“ Her eyes dart back and forth between them. They look exhausted, haunted, one of them holds a box in front of him.

„We are here to,“ the one with the tag _**HOLMES**_ on his chest starts speaking, his words dull and heavy to her ears, „deliver the belongings of Major Irene Adler, who has fallen during a mission in Kiel, to you, Miss Watson, as she stated in her last wish to our commanding General before she departed into the hot zone.“

She stares at them, her lips part, but no word works its way through her throat. Her muscles go slack, the knife falls, the world goes dark.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Joan offers them tea. They sit in the common kitchen of the apartment building, Captain Bell busying himself with preparing the black tea, while Joan and Lieutenant Holmes sit at the table.

The box they brought with them is rather small. On top of everything else is the uniform shirt and Joan can’t take her eyes away from the stitched **_ADLER_**. It seems to mock her, taunt her to have a breakdown over a woman who’s name isn’t Irene Adler, who she knew for a hot second. Who she lost herself in over the span of a far too short period of time.

She sits there in silence, sipping her tea, while the two soldiers talk about their comrade. Holmes’ eyes mist over more than once, and she senses that his feelings of loss come close to her own. Probably _worse_ than her own. But she doesn’t ask him, she doesn’t want to know what Jamie, or Irene, did, before she injected herself into Joan’s life, into Joan’s whole being. Her fingers travel the path of the stitched letters. She wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to break something apart.

But her body has a mind of its own. Her fingers curl into the fabric and bring the shirt close to her lips. Tears run down her cheeks.

 

* * *

 

 

London gets bombed by the German air force, destroying big parts of the city and killing thousands of people.

Joan is forced to leave her apartment, and, with some of her colleagues from the hospital, organizes a mobile health station, to treat as many people as possible. They don't cover much of the city during the day, but they can save a lot that didn’t have the chance to get to the bigger care facilities in time.

When once she complained for not having enough surgery experience, now the most uncommon procedures become routine.

She switches during the night, on and off, trying to get as much sleep as possible, while her colleagues work their way through the Underground Stations. Sleep is often disturbed by more bombs hitting the city. Cries of children, that echoe through the packed rooms.

It lasts days, weeks, months, until it is quiet. Sparse information of Operation Barbarossa and Germany’s focus on their eastern neighbors lets scattered cheers erupt. A weight is lifted from all of them, until they take in what is left of their beloved city.

Joan is utterly exhausted from helping to cleanup, rebuild and care, but her mind doesn’t stop from disrupting her sleep with nightmares of fire, blood and destruction.

Whenever she is forced out of her slumber, she stands up and makes herself tea. It doesn’t calm her down, but while she sips the hot beverage, she flips through the sketchbook that was with Jamie’s belongings. Fascinated by what the woman could capture with simple strokes of coal or pencil.

The last page of the sketchbook is covered with small drawings of Joan’s own face, scribbled out in various angles and emotional states. So detailed, Joan can’t believe how Jamie could remember every little thing, down to the freckles on her cheeks.

Joan lets the pad of her index finger graze over the edges of the papers. In her mind the paper cuts her, colors it in dark red. Her blood spilling, the patch growing more and more until it covers all of it, mingling with the pencil strokes and soaking up everything Jamie had left inside.

 

* * *

 

 

The nightmares don’t stop. Joan takes every night shift she can get, to exhaust herself, and drain her body of everything that lets her _feel_. Her new apartment had helped for a few days, the sense of a new beginning chasing away all the darkness. But she sees everyday what had happened. Not just the city, slowly growing again, but the people she treats, suffering and haunted by their own demons.

It is one of those nights Joan wakes up, sweat soaked, heart beating rapidly, that she has the feeling of someone watching her. Not the first time, but she grabs the gun she’s got on her nightstand, slips into a robe and quietly pads out of her room.

Her new apartment is bigger, two rooms, a kitchen and a bathroom, and the habit of keeping the doors closed signals the intrusion when she finds the door to the living room opened.

She raises the gun, like Marcus had shown her, and quickly steps through the door. Her eyes flit back and forth, trying to locate whoever it is that wants to rob her.

Blonde hair, highlighted by the glimmer of the street lamp outside the window, lets her freeze. The person turns towards her and Joan’s heart drops. She looks starved, exhausted, dark circles under her eyes, cheekbones more prominent, but her lips curl into an alluring smile when they lock eyes.

„Hello, darling.“

 

**Author's Note:**

> Because I couldn't get Natalie Dormer in that Uniform from the Captain America movie out of my head, and the WW2 setting bugged me for weeks.


End file.
